


Osculum Infame

by lichtkleid



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), devil contract
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtkleid/pseuds/lichtkleid
Summary: Ten years ago, an inspiring musician made a contract with a man at a crossroads. After nearly a decade of fame, the time to pay up nears, and the bard seeks to free himself. His quest brings him to Toussaint, in an semi-abandoned vineyard where dwells a wolf.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Priscilla
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

Night was falling when snow surprised them. Julian’s governess, engrossed in a conversation with the cloth merchant at the market, jumped in surprised when the snowflakes started to fall. She tightened her hand around Julian’s and hastened in finishing her purchases. The boy tried to escape, wide-eyed with wonder as the ground was rapidly coating up with soft, fresh snow, forgetting about the sweet, sticky mince pie in his hand. It felt crisp and clean and slightly muted the world. He wanted to run through it and look at the streets buried in white, but the governess was strict about not wanting him to get sick. She ushered him into a nearby inn to wait for a while.  
Julian was five and had never been in an inn before. He couldn’t see much, lost in the midst of a crowd, only seeing as far as pairs of breeches and dirty woolen skirts. A smell of drying cloth, ale and roasted meat permeated the air. The place was very noisy, a mix of laughter and loud conversations and clattering dishes. They sat by the hearth with mugs of warm milk, and suddenly, the noise seemed to die down a bit. Startled, the boy tried to stand on the tip of his toes to see what was happening: he made out the silhouette of a brightly dressed man who stood on a table. The man soon took out an instrument and started playing.

The atmosphere in the inn transformed immediately. It was apparent that most of the patrons knew the song; people were clapping, singing aloud, dancing around. A wave of joy seemed to spread around the inn. Transformed, the atmosphere was suddenly a lot friendlier; Julian felt a warming happiness within in his chest as the man sang, as he had felt when it had been his birthday a month ago and everyone had been so kind to him and he had gone to sleep surrounded by a mound of presents. He watched, fascinated, as the man made the assembly weep, laugh and dance with a slight strumming of his lute. He sang songs of soaring dragons, of knights without fear, of violet-eyed sorceresses who played in the shadows of kings. He sang of snow-covered mountaintops in a land called Skellige, fraught with sirens and dangers, of seas covered in ice shards, of the wind in the pines.

By the time snow had stopped falling and they ventured outside again, in the winter night, Julian was enthralled; he had found a passion that would never leave him, and he would grow with this fire within him.

***

A piece of molded bread hit him in the jaw. Jaskier stood under the humiliation and kept on singing, clear voice soaring, elegant fingers plucking at his lute. He was a good musician, he knew, one of the best in Oxenfurt. His voice had been praised over and over, by nobles and peasants alike. He wasn’t going to be deterred by some boorish audience. He changed the register of his music though, going from the joyful tune he’d been singing to a sadder ballad, trying to appeal to the sad looking peasants sitting around the dirty table. White Orchard might be beautiful come spring, with its apple blossoms floating gently in the warming days, but it was a hopeless place, barely better than Velen’s desperate villages.  
The ballad received no more enthusiasm. However, it appeared that a group of young men had found their entertainment by throwing pieces of old bread at him, and soon it became the evening’s main event. Jaskier soldiered on until the end of the song, until his pride hurt him more than the comments from the crowd. Cheeks reddened with humiliation, he stepped off and quickly disappeared into the crowd as he saw a man seized a piece of fruit with all intention of throwing it at him.  
He bought an ale at the counter and downed it too fast. He felt sorry for himself and lonely. He had dreamed of a much better welcome than this when he’d left Oxenfurt to start his career as a bard. He had talent, this was uncontested. What he lacked was practice, and how to master a crowd. But he had played night after night, in every inn that would welcome him, often for a hot meal and a bed, sometimes for nothing at all, and very scarcely for a bit of coin. But coin was eaten quickly when a young man was on the road. He had renounced all his small pleasures quite fast – prostitutes, colorful clothes, books – but day after day, he’d had to make do with less and less. He’d sold some of his nicer clothes, started to eat less at inns if the food wasn’t offered, and often slept in the stables.  
It had been a while since he’d had a night with a good companion, some applause, a slice of roast and good ale. 

White Orchard had, at least, tasty cider. His months of tribulations had mainly brought him to poverty and gave him no advance at all on his career as a musician. He had written a lot of songs during the trips, but no one cared to hear them; what was the point of being a bard, then?  
He had cider at least. He drank mug after mug, too fast on an empty stomach, then, as the alcohol settled in him, he felt a deep resolution that he would keep travelling, and keep singing.  
Music was his calling, and he would not abandon it.

He left the inn devoid of coin, drunk and alone, but with a will of iron. Even when he was still Julian, he was stubborn as a mule, and there was no changing his mind once it was set on something.  
The village was empty as he walked through it, swaying slightly, humming loudly some tune that came to his mind. But his pace went more chaotic as he crossed the village, and his body betrayed him as he reached the clearing of trees indicating the beginning of the path. Leaning against a trunk, he lurched badly, and threw up, legs trembling.  
He stood again after a while, a fire in the throat, the acidic taste of bile in his mouth. He felt miserable, all resolve lost. He thought he could just fall down there at the base of this tree and pass out, hoping he'd wake in Oxenfurt. But the thought of the villagers finding him reanimated his pride, and he moved again towards the forest, feeling completely devoid of hope for the first time since he'd started traveling. When dawn would come, he'd return to Oxenfurt and spend some time with his friend, where he was wanted and he could make a bit of easy coin. 

The stars were clear and crisp. Night was pleasant, cold and deeply black. The smell of herbs and wilderness was intoxicating and grandiose. He thought for a minute that he would have wanted to be nothing, a snail under a leaf, a squirrel running up a tree, an insect hiding in a tree trunk, but a man. Animals could live to their true purpose: living a short life according to their instinct, basking in nature and bursting with life, but he had to make do with stupid peasants who had no idea of the value of music and an even stupider political landscape that kept them in poverty.

He came to a crossroad and stopped to look at the signs. His legs were aching and his ears rang. He wished he could sleep for a bit before continuing his journey and started to regret having left the inn.  
A sign indicated Novigrad. He straightened up, and thought of the free city, when a voice rang behind him.

“Novigrad is a good place for aspiring musicians. If I were you, I’d go.”

Startled, the bard turned. Standing in the middle of the crossroads, a man stood, shrouded in darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier stilled and turned uncertainly. To the stranger, he must have looked like a hull of a man, whose only sign of life was the fire in his eyes. They burned in a youngish, but slender face, under dark eyebrows and messy, dirty, hair. His colorful clothing was dusty and tattered. There was a bruise on his clavicle that he got in some drunken night. He gave a half-hearted smile, inviting conversation. 

In front of him, the man smiled kindly, a smile that was maybe a touch too kind, a touch too sly, under dark, mischievous eyes. But he was a man with advice, and Jaskier could stand to take some of that. The man looked poor, too, but that seemed off; the bard had spent enough time in shitty taverns and inns to know a true pauper. Poor men did not stand that proudly, and they did not have that spark in their eye. They were overburdened, crumbling under the weight of fieldwork and unpaid taxes and the pressing need of medicine for a sick child. But whyever this man wore the mask of a commoner was unimportant. 

“Why Novigrad?”

The man’s smiled widened, and he took a resolute step towards Jaskier, closing the gap between them. He brought a slight scent of wild herbs, and the bard thought he was maybe an healer.

“There’s numerous inns there, and people who can tell good music from the slop they usually hear around here. There’s a theater, too, and many aspiring musicians who could make an order. It’s easier as a group.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I am a patron of the arts myself.”

Mirth was audible in the man’s voice. He came even closer to the bard and held out a hand, that Jaskier took and shook.

“I’m the master mirror” he said softly, with a mock bow. “And I might be of service to you.”

***

It had felt like indulging a fool. The Master Mirror looked like some eccentric noble whose brains had been rotten by fisstech or drink, and gambled again his fortune. Jaskier knew these men well. Sometimes, after playing, some drunkard would insist that the bard would drink with him, and Jaskier accepted, half out of politeness, half because free ale and stories couldn't be turned down. Out of kindness, out of boredom, he had taken many a drink, sung many a song, bedded many a woman. Until that night, when out of desperation and hunger he had smiled to a stranger at a crossroads, had gambled his life away, had given up his soul on a whim, to a dark-eyed stranger who looked like a poor man and offered him fame and recognition, for a fee to collect in ten years. Ten years is forever when you're hungry and cold. And Jaskier may be young but he wasn't about to believe some man in ragged bure clothes was a threat. In ten years, anyways, if he wasn't dead, he'd be far away. 

Come morning he had a new life. He woke up with a new feeling. A deep-seated, warm pleasure was buzzing within him; he felt very sure, suddenly, very young and very ambitious. He felt like he could attain anything he’d set to do that day. His life was just starting: a lifetime of opportunity was open to him, and success, love, recognition and wealth awaited. He walked towards Novigrad with a spring in his step, and, if a small, almost unsightly mark had appeared on the inside of his left wrist, he took no notice or care for it.

He sang his way to Novigrad, and where before he'd been overlooked in the inns, he was now warmly welcomed; coin fell plentiful to his pocket. Anywhere he went, he was celebrateed. He felt a new depth to his voice, and playing his lute was easier than ever. It felt like it answered directly to his mind, instead of his fingers. Music flew, magical, untainted, from his bewitched fingers, and he sang, sang, sang himself hoarse, under rounds of applause and awed silence. 

He had enough coin to hitch a ride to Novigrad, and entered the city on a chilly evening in October. The bridges were shrouded in mist, and the smell of saltwater and rotten fruit came from the boats. Dockmen walked around, bare chested and muscular, their faces rough with sea wind and hardship, heavy burlap bags over their shoulders. The fog was clouding the ships, only leaving the tops of old sails emerging from the mist. The evening was lively despite the chill. Guards patrolled along the bridges, carrying heavy torches. People hurried everywhere, steps resonating on the wet ground. Women clad in linen rushed around, carrying heavy baskets and bags. People rushed to the inns as the night fell. There were drunks outside, and scantily clad women strutting around the docks. One of them winked at Jaskier. People huddled under black cloaks walked around, silent as ghosts. Novigrad was packed, busy, thriving and endless. There was an acidity to the air. It was salty and smelled of a new life.


	3. Chapter 3

Suddenly, a place in the world was made for Jaskier. He immediately felt at home in the sleazy streets of the free city, found his place and settled in applause. In a matter of a few days, he was given a long-term room in an inn and played gigs every night.   
Soon enough, he made a lot of coin, and drowned in adoration. Regulars rushed to the inn to see him play night after night; they knew all his songs, sung all his words, and celebrated when he played something new. Jaskier bought a new lute, splurged in beautiful clothing, heavily colored fabrics that fit him best, and in expensive wines imported from Toussaint. He dined on the finest meats, slept in silken sheets, and only received the most beautiful of women. 

Youthful, gorgeous, talented, he drew crowds: he was the city’s attraction, and he wrote and sung himself to exhaustion. There was a deep-set satisfaction in the thrill of setting quill to paper and transcribing old stories and tales he had dreamed up, and seeing them so enjoyed in the coming days. The days of playing an entire evening for a thinned out plate of broth and molded bread thrown to his face were long gone.   
In a few months, he made numerous friends, bought a flat, and became a regular in some of the most prestigious places of Novigrad. His extravagance only added to his character, and quite soon he had a reputation, that of a new star, born out of nothing, and rising fast and quick in the dumps of Novigrad.

As his fortune and luck grew, he delved into fisstech and drink. There was little to none physical consequence to substance abuse, so it felt pointless to turn it down. Money flowed, so he could afford as much as he desired. Word went around quickly that he had coin and talent and since he was easy on the eye, too, he quickly found himself surrounded by a small court of acquaintances: aspiring poets and actors, women fawning over him, luxury whores from the Passiflora who had a taste for the arts, bored teens of rich families who wanted a taste of a dirtier, forbidden life. Suitors came by the dozen. Women, men, and the creatures too: incubi, succubi, vampires, and shapeshifters. He got high on the desire.

On top of playing music, he also started acting. The theater, although not his trade of choice, also held its array of attraction for him, and it did not only hold in the applause of the crowd. He found he was good at acting, and impersonating soon became second nature to him. There was this almost intoxicating pleasure in being good at something and getting recognition for it: he took it and enjoyed it fully. In playing, he found a new, different way of expressing himself that he came to enjoy, too.   
Then he found an even deeper reason to stick to it, even when he yearned to play his lute and spend his nights in crowded inns. It came as a slender blonde woman who sung songs of love and war.  
Priscilla came as a ray of light in the mire of Novigrad. Amongst the whores, the fisstech addicts, the dropouts of Oxenfurt university and the drunkards, she was a beacon of purity. Young, beautiful, extravagant, she was his female counterpart, the woman of his dreams, and their love grew fast and fierce.  
He loved her deeply, achingly, and too quickly. Together, they dreamed up a life of ideals, a pair of artists, a pair of drunks chasing after wine-infused dreams, making up a world on crumpled sheets in a winter evening. For a while, they were a duet, Dandelion and Callonetta, on stage and off. For a while, they were each other's life. They never swore fidelity to each other, yet never felt a desire to visit other suitors as long as they courted each other. For months, they lived only off a fire that came through the other, and only so. 

But years passed as a blink, and their love withered away. Jaskier found himself tired to be tied to a person who was so much like his own self. Day after day, he felt a weariness in waking in the afternoon next to a woman too beautiful to be true, feeling unnatural talent coursing through his veins, and sharing a stage, and talent, and beauty. He knew her too well; she was, after all, just like him, and he felt weary of being himself.

Month after month, Jaskier found himself celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday. For the first time, he chose to do it privately, alone in his house and away from noise. He drank some wine, played some music, and understood that time was running short. He had come to understand that the mock, drunk contract he had signed nine years ago actually had its truth; there was no way he’d otherwise found success so easily, nor that unnatural endurance his body had to all types of drugs.   
He knew in a year’s time, he’d have to pay up, with his life, his soul, or whatever else the man would wish for. That night, shortly after turning twenty five, Jaskier drank himself into oblivion and fell asleep at his desk, in front of the still roaring fire, like a log.   
He woke from his drunken night in the midst of the day, to the sounds of the lively market, and resolved that it was time to fight this back. After all, this contract had been extorted from him when he was sixteen and drunk and high on despair; what value could this have?   
He thought he’d go to visit the mages too, and the herbalists, and, in the highly unlikely case that they couldn’t provide a solution, he’d turn to Oxenfurt university.


	4. Chapter 4

It took Jaskier several weeks to visit the mages of Novigrad. It was still a very young man, with a lean and muscular body and a mask on his face for anonymity who consulted the mages at night. He went to the most famous ones at first, then, as he was starting to make acquaintances amongst them, got access to the lowest part of the cities, and met the ones dwelling into the underbelly of the docks. There, the mages were more powerful, and more secretive; they stayed hidden in fear of the prosecution. But even them could not help. Only a handful had heard of the devil of the crossroads, and they called him the master mirror. But even those spoke of him in hushed tones, quickly, with anguish in their eyes. In any other situation, Jaskier would have have annoyed at the theatricality of it, but his life was at stake, after all. They spoke of a professor in Oxenfurt who had been tortured and killed for having tried to find out more about the devil, and of the silence that surrounded the creature ever since.

Nothing good could come out of being indebted to a man who put fear into a sorcerer's eyes. 

He spent a lot of coin on these pursuits, losing hope night after night, days blurred by sleepless nights of wandering in sewers, basements and seedy inns. The sorceresses were beautiful and deeply sultry, often older than they appeared, and he bedded many of them. But despite their age and their knowledge, they had nothing for him.

After these fruitless weeks, finally, Jaskier found a sliver of hope as he met the infamous Triss Merigold at an inn. Fiery red hair hidden under a cloak, eyes clouded with sympathy, she didn't seem as frightened by the witch hunters as most had been. They drank ale and she listened to his plight. Her gaze turned apologetic, and he felt his hope fall as he finished telling the story. The coins he had paid in advance were pushed back into his hand as Triss Merigold lifted her cup, downed her ale, and shrugged slightly.  
'There isn't much I can say to you, bard, for I have never met this master mirror. But I know a man is known for helping those in need. Indeed, if he cannot, then I am afraid no one else can. Go to Toussaint, bard, and find Geralt of Rivia, in the estate of Corvo Bianco. Take a good horse, and bring coin, for he will request hefty payment.'

Jaskier left the next morning, leaving behind his home, his court and his wealth. He packed some coin, some travel supplies, deposited his most precious objects at Vivaldi's banks with instructions to deliver them to Priscilla if he hadn't returned in a year. In the vault he rented, he left his best instruments, brocades and silks, ancient scrolls and books he had enjoyed reading, various trinquets, a mound of gems and gold, and many memories.  
He left on a dapple horse at the crack of dawn, cloaked in dark blue. There was a dagger concealed in his boot, and a had a small vial of poison at his belt. Not a soul that saw him depart could have recognized the flamboyant Dandelion in this fleeing figure hunched over a stocky horse.  
He rode for days, only stopping to ask for directions and snatch a couple hours of sleep in dodgy inns. He ate sparsely and slept with one eye open, widely aware of the danger of being alive and on the road. More than ever, he was aware of his youth and what an easy victim he’d make: far from home, with a bit too much coin in his purse, and unskilled in fight. However, he still sat down after dinner to drink an ale and listen to the minstrels, before going to sleep. A life without art was one he’d refuse to live.

He reached Toussaint after seven days of riding, in the dying light of the evening, and felt like he had entered a different universe. Even after the exhaustion of travel, he couldn’t help but feel immensely soothed by the beauty of the place, the warm glow of the sun even in the late day, and the swaying of the leaves. It was still clear and the fields were full of flowers.

It made no sense to die here. This was where he was to be saved, and where he'd get to go on with his young life.

He was serene as he crossed Beauclair. The city was clear and colorful. It smelled of lavender and peace, the walls were covered in ivy, and the cobblestones were white. He slept in an inn, and, come morning, a shoeshine boy told him where he could find the white wolf.  
He rode the dapple horse for the last time towards the vineyard. His legs and ass hurt from riding several days in a row, but he felt invigorated. The warmth and change of scenery made it easy to hope for a future.  
He found Corvo Bianco easily; it was an old, wide estate that seemed to be halfway refurbished. Either the white wolf was lazy in his keeping of his estate, either he lacked coin to deal with it properly: this would explain why Triss Merigold had told him to prepare accordingly. 

The vines were heavy with ripe grapes. The rising sun made them shine ruby, thick with juice and sunrays. The air was intoxicating. Further away, he saw some wheatfields, cypresses with fluttering branches, and a clearing sky. He set foot to the ground, gently leading his horse towards the main entrance of the estate. From afar, he saw an old woman and a dapper middle-aged man conversing. The woman was frail and had white hair, but she held a heavy basket full of fruit on her hip.  
They were laughing. Life was good.  
Jaskier walked towards them and, as they noticed him and turned towards him, a prickling pain irradiated in his ankle. Almost instantly, fog took over his brain. He looked down, saw the shiny sliver of snake scales running off on the burnt ground, and a drop of blood on his ankle. His vision blurred. Someone rushed towards him. He heard a woman’s voice calling out for a Master Witcher. She came towards him, a blur of grey linen and white hair, and he fell to the ground.  
He felt neither the pain of hitting the gravel neither the strong arms that carried him to the estate of the white wolf. 

He knew it was noon before he even opened his eyes. The sun was bright, even through closed eyelids, and shone red. There was a soft mattress under his back, and the air was warm and smelled of leather and lavender.  
He cracked an eye open. He felt tired, a bit dizzy, but otherwise fine. He was laying in a small room with an open window. The walls were clear, save for two swords displayed above the mantelpiece of the cold hearth. The old woman was sitting in a chair by the windows, knitting something. She smiled when she noticed he had awoken.  
‘Hello, stranger. How are you feeling?’  
‘Fine, just… just tired. Where am I?’  
The woman stood and walked towards the bed, plucking a glass of water on the nightstand to offer it to him.  
‘Drink. You’re in Geralt of Rivia’s estate, Corvo Bianco, and your horse is in our stables. It seems you were coming to visit us when the snake bit you. Don’t worry, the poison is harmless if treated quickly. You might feel a bit hazy for a few days, that’s all.’  
‘Geralt of Rivia, the white wolf?’  
‘Himself. Does he expect you?’  
‘No. But I come from a mutual friend.’  
He took a long gulp of the water. His mind felt clearer.  
‘Thank you for taking care of me.’  
‘No need to thank me. Never again will I turn a traveler from my doorstep again.’

And, on these mysterious words, she left the room. Soon, heavy steps were heard, and a man entered the room, the old woman on his tracks.

Jaskier recognized Geralt of Rivia immediately, from all the songs he’d heard about him. The man stood tall, clad in linen and worn leather, unnaturally white hair tied messily. A scar marred his face. He looked dangerous and ancient, out of place in this beautiful estate. His eyes were golden, and they shone too much. Jaskier shivered. A couple months ago, he would have found the man attractive. Now, he just felt how deep the gap between them was, and understood he’d have to convince him.  
‘Who are you?’  
‘My name is Jaskier. I’m a bard from Novigrad, I came to seek your help-‘  
‘Where’s your instrument, bard?’  
The interruption was rude, but not surprising: it might seem suspicious, after all. And Jaskier just shrugged. He wondered idly where his pack was, with his purse and his coin, then decided it didn’t matter. It had been meant for the witcher anyways; if it went to him, or if it was lost, didn’t matter anymore. His dagger and poison vial were missing, too, but he found no strength to worry.  
‘I thought I would not need it, where I was going.’  
‘Hmm. And why did you seek me for?’  
‘Triss Merigold thought I should do so.’

The mention of the witch’s name brought a light to the stranger eyes of the witcher. His attention seemed to focus more deeply on the bard. 

‘Why did Triss send you here?’  
‘I… sought her help for a personal matter, and she was unable to help me. But she thought you’d know.’  
‘What’s this personal matter?’

The bard licked his lips. He was still laying in bed and felt uncomfortable, in the witcher’s hospitality, having to look up at him while the man towered over him, as stern and cold as the swords of his wall.

‘Nine years ago, I met a man at a crossroads. He offered me… offered me something that I wanted, in exchange for my soul. I was to get ten years before he’d come to collect me and soon…’ he trailed off, then finished. ‘And soon he will come for me. I want to undo the contract. I have come to ask for your help in doing so.”  
“No.”

The word falls like the blade of a guillotine. Then the Witcher turns, and before he knows it, Jaskier is facing a broad back and fluttering white hair. He understands with a shocking clarity that if he lets the Witcher walk away, he will die. He sees despair in the man’s back, and pleads.

“Wait!”

The Witcher’s face, although slightly unhuman, shows an emotion that Jaskier knows very well: exasperation, but a mild one, that could be even fond if he knew the man.

“Please, White Wolf. I have coin.”  
“So do I. Still no.”  
“You could refurbish this estate. I know the best artists of Novigrad and wine makers too. I could have them work for you.”  
“Trying to sell me someone else’s labor, hm?”  
“No! I’m just… ” He stopped in his tracks, frustrated. “Please, Witcher. Help me. You’re known for helping those in need, and I am in need.”  
“Hmm. Made your own bed, haven’t you.”  
“Witcher… Geralt, I was sixteen, I was stupid. I don’t deserve to die for a drunken night.”  
“Plenty of people die for stupid reasons. Ever heard of war, bard?”

The bard stilled. He had nothing to answer to this, so he just changed the topic.

“Geralt, come on. I’ve heard your stories – heck, I’ve sung them myself. I know you. You’re not one to sit in a vineyard and in the sun all day. Look at me in the eye and tell you’re not bored out of your brains here. Witcher, you were born for adventure, for uncertainty, for glory. You were made to bathe in blood and wine, not to sit idle in a ruin and waste away! Witcher! Look at me and tell me you don’t long for the path!”

He knew before the Witcher had even spoken that he had struck the right chord, and he uttered quietly a word of assent.

'Fine.'


End file.
